


Whatever You Say

by rotaryphones



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Blood, Choking, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, M/M, No Tentacles, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Weird Dirty Talk, mentions of:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2696051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotaryphones/pseuds/rotaryphones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it comes to phone sex, Cecil has a way with words. Cecil's way with words sometimes makes Carlos wonder whether those words had consented.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever You Say

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is me, officially dipping my toe into WTNV fandom. My MO of late has been kinky porn with a bit of character study thrown in, so that's what I'm bringing to the table. Only, you know, a LOT weirder.

Carlos pressed his phone to his ear and listened to it ring once, twice, then cut off halfway through the third ring.

“Hello?” drifted Cecil’s familiar voice through the speaker. He always pretended not to know who was calling, even though Carlos knew for a fact he had caller ID. And sure, sometimes it replaced Carlos’s name and number with an animated GIF of writhing maggots, but still, Cecil knew perfectly well who was calling. It was one of Cecil’s more innocent idiosyncrasies, and it made Carlos grin.

“Hi Cecil,” he said, feeling unaccountably shy.

“Oh Carlos, I’m _so_ glad you called,” Cecil gushed at once. The warmth in his tone gave Carlos an abstract pain in his chest. Cecil’s absence was always easier managed when Carlos wasn’t hearing that voice. Its pitch and timbre carried all of the things that were gone in Carlos’s life, the things he could possibly regain if he simply spent the time to search for a certain door. And _that_ thought added a twist of guilt on top of the ache of longing. “I was just thinking about you,” Cecil continued.

Carlos pushed the more complicated emotions out of the way, and brought himself back to the moment. “Were you? I was thinking of you too.”

“Yes. I was thinking of all the things I want to do to you when you get back.”

Ah. It was going to be _that_ sort of phone call. Carlos put his phone on speaker, and settled back onto his makeshift cot inside his borrowed tent. Already he felt anticipation bubbling under his skin. Phone sex with Cecil was—well. It had started out sweet and fumbling, just like their actual sex had been back in Night Vale, but over the months it had developed into something much stranger and far more incendiary.

Cecil had a way with words, after all. Sometimes Cecil’s way with words made Carlos wonder whether those words had consented.

“Yeah? What is it you want to do to me?”

He heard a deep breath over the line. “Oh Carlos, where can I even begin? Do I want to consume you, or do I want to tear you apart? Maybe I should bury you in fertile soil so I can keep you underfoot and see what grows out of you.”

“Not that,” Carlos interrupted as he unbuttoned his pants. “I want to be able to touch you.”

“Good, because I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my hands off of you. I think the moment I see you, my hands will magnetize and affix themselves to whatever skin happens to be visible, and I won’t be able to stop them. Your arms, perhaps? Maybe your sleeves will be rolled up, and I’ll wrap my fingers around your forearms, my palms turning white hot until our flesh is seared together. Or maybe they’ll go straight to your face, cupping your cheeks, blocking your mouth and nose, my thumbs gently caressing your eye sockets so that you’ll have no choice but to breath through my mouth and see through my eyes until my hands are able to let you go.”

Carlos shoved his pants down just enough to press a hand against his groin. He didn’t know where Cecil came up with this stuff. For all he knew, this was standard Night Vale dirty talk, the way strangers in the supermarket greeted each other with, “Beware the bleak tidings.” Or maybe it was pure Cecil, born of a limitless imagination, a broadcaster’s love of his own voice, and a lifetime of weird. What did it matter? Carlos had stopped caring weeks ago, just as he’d stopped caring why on earth he found it sexy. There were some things—only a few select things—that didn’t need to be analyzed or understood by science.

So without analyzing, Carlos closed his eyes and tried to visualize what Cecil had described. “That’s not enough, Cecil. I want you to touch me everywhere. But I need to get these clothes out of the way first.”

“Easy,” Cecil purred. “All I have to do is intone a few lines to invoke the Ancient Quantum Mechanical Gods, and the particles of your clothing will simply jump to your left then drop into a pile, leaving you shivering and goosefleshed in the mocking moonlight.”

Carlos made a mental note to ask Cecil what he knew about quantum mechanics, but at the moment there was another detail that interested him more. “The moonlight? Are we outside?”

There was a pregnant pause on the other side of the line. When Cecil finally spoke, his voice was pitched so quiet and low it was only a rumble. “We’re in the dog park.”

Carlos sucked in a breath, his cock giving a twitch as he worked it with a spit-covered palm. Then he thought of Cecil saying those words out loud, into his phone, and his budding arousal was mixed with actual alarm. “Careful. What if the Sheriff’s Secret Police hear you?”

“Of course they can hear me. They’re watching all of this. They’re staring from the bushes at the chilled exposed meat of your perfect body, Carlos. They want to see what I do to it as much as you do. They’re licking their purple lips and howling at the moonlight reflected in your pleading eyes.”

“Fuck,” Carlos whispered, still keeping to light touches on his hardening cock.

“Maybe. Maybe soon. First I’m going to touch every square inch of your skin. I’m going to finger-paint you from head to toe in blood. Don’t worry about whose blood it is. I just want to see the red trails of where my fingers have been so I can make sure I haven’t missed a spot. You’ll need to be still for me. Can you be perfectly still while I paint you in blood?”

“Yes Cecil,” Carlos groaned. He went still and tense at Cecil’s bidding, his hand completely immobile on his cock. It took a moment before he remembered that Cecil wasn’t actually in the room with him, and this was all just fantasy.

“Good, that’s very good, Carlos. First I’m going to trail my fingers down your spine. The blood looks like alizarin crimson dye against your skin. Can you feel the warmth of it before it dries and cools? It’s _very_ fresh. I’m painting intricate symbols on your back with one hand, while another traces along each of your ribs. And another hand caresses up the inside of your thigh, while another hand paints those vulnerable spaces between each of your individual perfect fingers.”

It was easy to imagine being touched everywhere that was described, but Cecil seemed to have miscalculated his own appendages. “How many—?”

“While all of that is happening,” Cecil cut him off, “one of my hands is now wrapped tight around your throat. You try to breathe in the forbidden air, but I squeeze tighter, and _tighter_ , and no air will come. I don’t want to hurt you, sweet Carlos. I just want to know what visions come to you when that incredible brain of yours is deprived of oxygen.”

Carlos’s hand, the one that wasn’t stroking himself, went up to his own throat. He didn’t add pressure; he just rested it there, feeling the delicate skin. With eyelids pressed together, he imagined the hand was Cecil’s. He imagined his vision tunneling, and imagined the hallucinations that would form out of the encroaching darkness.

“I can see—” he started, a little unsure of what to say, but determined to give as good as he got. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “I can see stars. And the stars are burning fiery plasma millions of miles away, but I can see them up close. I can make out their specific color signatures, and I—I can feel their heat.”

He could hear Cecil pant and groan over the phone, a sound that filled him with pride and pleasure knowing _he_ had caused it.

“Burning stars? Oh Carlos, your filthy, terrifying mind.”

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Of course I am. I’ll stop choking you so you can see. My skin feels like acid. It’s already burnt my clothing to piles of ash gathered at my feet. I’m fisting my cock, and I think it’s starting to glow chartreuse. It’s humming something tuneless. You make me radioactive.”

Carlos was pretty sure Cecil’s cock has never changed color in his presence, and he had certainly never heard it hum, but for some reason it was easy to picture. “You’re beautiful, Cecil. You’re beautiful when you glow for me. I want you in my mouth.”

“Oh, yes please,” Cecil groaned. “Be careful I don’t incinerate your tongue.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Carlos babbled. He shoved his own fingers in his mouth just to have something to suck on. “Cecil,” he said, mouth full and voice garbled. “You taste amazing. Like—like trace amounts of sodium, potassium, and calcium.”

“And you feel like the hot, wet embrace of an open wound. Carlos, use your teeth. Use all of your teeth. I want to feel every single one of your perfect human teeth digging into me.”

Carlos knew for a fact that Cecil didn’t like him using his teeth in reality, but he bit down on his own fingers, and hummed at the sensation. Maybe it was the deep vibrations of Cecil’s voice that made everything sound pornographic, no matter the content. Or maybe Carlos liked his sex a little bizarre. It was okay, all of it was okay, because none of it was real.

“Cecil,” he breathed into the phone for lack of anything better to say. Sometimes he couldn’t think of anything more erotic than his boyfriend’s name.

“My fingers are entwined in your perfect hair, now. Can you feel that? It’s like touching the non-existent wings of angels. Your strands run through my fingers like fresh water trickling over desert rocks. Your hair is as terrifying and mysterious as a cloud. I want to live in your hair. I want to swallow and choke on your hair.”

“Cecil, stop,” panted Carlos with a slight giggle. “It’s just hair.”

“Can I pull on it?”

“Yes,” said Carlos. He removed his fingers from his mouth so he could yank on his hair himself, and thought of Cecil claiming him in that way while he continued to suck his cock. “Pull harder.”

“Oh Carlos, your hair is _perfect_. I want to come in your perfect hair. I want to come all over your hair and body until it mixes with the blood so I can watch the pink concoction dripping down your skin. And then, ah—oh mysterious heavens, I’m going to come soon.”

“Don’t!” Carlos shouted, not yet ready to come himself. He felt electrified, abuzz with Cecil’s terrifying words, and he wanted the feeling to last as long as possible. “I want you to fuck me first.”

There was a sharp intake of breath over the phone. “Oh. Oh yes, sweet Carlos, I want that too. I want to take you stretched out over this ceremonial slab that happens to be sitting here in the dog park. I want you to add your markings to the desperate fingernail scratchings already embedded in the stone. I want to fuck you while the Secret Police look on, and the hooded figures breathe softly down the back of your neck.”

Carlos was dizzy with want, beyond the point of caring why anything about that description would be appealing. “I’m there, Cecil. I’m leaning over the metamorphosed limestone slab, and I need you inside me.”

“You’re so beautiful.” This was followed by a high keen, the sound of Cecil on the edge and barely holding back. His voice returned, still low and seductive, but noticeably less composed. “And I can see you’re already stretched wide and dripping with lubricant with no memory of when that happened, or who prepared you.”

“Yes,” Carlos agreed, ready to agree to just about anything, sucking two fingers back into his mouth to slick them up. “I’m so ready for you.”

“Okay. Okay, I’m going to put my cock in you now.”

Carlos repositioned so he could reach his own ass, and without teasing it out, shoved two fingers inside. The pleasure rolled through him. “Cecil,” he moaned.

“Yes, you feel so good.”

A grunt, a couple of hitching breaths, and then suddenly Cecil’s tone changed. He lost that last bit of radio announcer quality to his voice, the part that was still playing at seduction like a game. Underneath it was something more desperate, more sincere, and all the more intimate. “Oh Carlos, I wish you were actually here.” His sentences were now quiet, wavering, and broken up by whimpers. “I would— _oh_ —I would dig my fingernails into your soft waist, I would sink my teeth hard into your neck and lick at the blood. I want to stroke your cock so raw it aches. I want—I want to shove my entire hand inside you, _alongside_ my cock, and then I would yank your head back by the hair and grab whatever was nearby to shove into your gaping mouth, and then—oh fuck—I would tell you I love you, over and over again, just to hear your garbled indistinct reply, and then—”

The halting description was suddenly broken off by the sound of Cecil’s choked wail. Carlos, who had been right on the edge as he soaked in Cecil’s filthy words, sped up his movements. He came a moment later, an unsettling collage of images running through his mind. The moon. Cecil’s hands. The dog park. Blood. Cecil’s face, scrunched up in the throes of orgasm. A glowing, radioactive cock. Cecil’s cock. Cecil’s smile. Cecil.

Carlos lay there in the afterglow for a long while before the discomfort began to settle in his bones. The things Cecil had described, there at the last—they weren’t fantastical and bizarre like their usual phone sex inventions. Cecil had been describing things that could, potentially, be very real.

Although Carlos still felt loose and tingling from his orgasm, his body wanting nothing more than to stretch and laze for a while, his mind was starting to pick up the slack, wondering what it all meant. These strange things they had been saying to each other over the last few months: were these the things that Cecil wanted to do when Carlos returned? Not just the rough sex, but the exhibitionism? The choking? The blood play?

“Um, Cecil?”

“Mm hm?”

“Those things that you said, just now. That, uh. What you were describing.”

“Oh.” Carlos could hear the sudden switch to concern. “Was it okay? Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes! Yes, I definitely enjoyed it. I was wondering though, when you said, um…you know, when you said…”

Cecil chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re getting all flustered now over a bit of dirty talk.”

Carlos nearly snorted. A “bit of dirty talk,” indeed. But it wasn’t Cecil’s words that were bothering him, not exactly. It was all fun and games over the phone, sure. But what would it mean if Carlos returned home? That was the thought that left him uncertain. It wasn’t that Carlos was opposed to trying new things in bed, but what about the rest of it? Not just the sex. What if he returned to the strangeness that was Night Vale, only to find he didn’t fit anymore? Or worse, what if he and Cecil didn’t fit together anymore? Not like they used to, in any case.

Carlos figured out what he was trying to ask. “Cecil. If—when I get back, do you think…?” He swallowed. “Do you think things will be different? Um, between us, I mean.”

There was silence on the other end. And then came Cecil’s voice, in all of its composed, comforting familiarity.

“Some things will be different. Some things will be the same. And everything will be exactly as it should be.”

Carlos smiled, feeling an unknown weight lift from his chest. This question, of how things would be when he returned, had been bothering him far more than he wanted to admit.

But just as he was about to thank Cecil for his words, the words that always seemed right even if they didn’t always make scientific sense, his voice suddenly caught in his throat. Something was different. There was something in the tent that had not been there a moment ago. He looked around in confusion, trying to sense what had changed. Same canvas walls, same desert floor, same…door? Had the entrance to his tent always been a door? An oak door?

Carlos leapt from his bed, yanked up his pants, and reached for the brass knob.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, having a door suddenly appear at the end there might be a little cheesy, but I couldn't help myself.


End file.
